Fat meets match, I hope

See, the thing about attending graduate school post 40 is that all that sedentary dissertation writing and the requisite peanut butter M&Ms go straight to your gut. My gut, at any rate, with the ass a close second. And the thing about dissertation weight is that for, say, a year post-dissertation, it can be called "dissertation weight"; after a year, it’s just plain old fat.

My dissertation defense will be a year past come June. So this entry isn’t so much about New Year’s fervor as the unstoppable march of time.

I have collected, therefore, a pair of bicycle shorts and a huge, gut-and-ass-hiding tee shirt, a can of Nair (for those I-don’t-shave-in-the-winter legs), and a key card for the school gym, which is across the freaking street from my apartment. I have no excuses left. Today, I go to grunt and sweat.

May the spirit of Jack Lalanne go with me (Jack Lalanne is dead, isn’t he?).

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